Amish Days: Replacement Wife: Hollybrook Amish Romance (Greta's Story Book 1) Read online

  Replacement wife

  Hollybrook Amish Romance Greta’s Story #1

  Brenda Maxfield

  Contents

  Personal Word from the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Continue Reading…

  Thank you for Reading

  More Hollybrook Amish Romances for You

  About the Author

  Personal Word from the Author

  Dearest Readers,

  Thank you so much for reading one of my books! Your kinds words and loving readership make my day. As a thank you, I would like to give you a simple gift of my two favorite Amish recipes and keep you up-to-date with new releases and special offers.

  Click Here To Get Your Free Recipes

  Copyright © 2017 by Tica House Publishing LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.

  II Corinthians 1:3 (KJV)

  Isaac Wagner bent low over his wife, who lay nearly buried under the pile of quilts, only her pale face visible.

  “Promise me…” she whispered through cracked lips.

  Isaac fingered a tendril of her hair before tucking it gently behind her ear.

  Betty blinked, her sunken gray eyes full of tears. “Isaac, promise me.”

  Isaac wanted to gag. How could he possibly utter such a promise? It went against everything in him. But standing there in the too-hot room, looking at his ill wife who was little more than skin and bones, how could he deny her?

  “All right,” he choked out. “I promise.”

  Betty smiled and closed her eyes. She went still. For a frantic second, Isaac feared she had succumbed, but then he saw the faintest movement of her nostrils. Still breathing. Thank God. Still breathing.

  There was a rustling sound behind him. He turned to see Abigail, who entered carrying a damp cloth. She went to his wife. With a tender touch, she ran the cloth over his wife’s face.

  “There you are, Betty,” Abigail whispered. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

  Abigail straightened and gave Isaac a look full of compassion. He knew she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. Instead, she left the room, leaving him alone with Betty once more.

  But Isaac couldn’t stay with his wife all day. His chores were crying out to be done. And staying with Betty was becoming more and more difficult. There was nothing he could do, no way to help her, no way to give her back her life.

  The lump in his throat was cutting off his air. He tried to swallow against it, but his grief sucked his efforts into a hollow void. He coughed and ran his hand down his beard. He coughed again. Better. A bit of air.

  He blinked back his tears and touched his wife’s arm through the blankets. “I’ll be back later,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about Myrtle. She misses you, you know.”

  No response. Not that he’d expected one. But sometimes, when he waxed on about their ornery goat, Betty smiled. Two years ago—almost to the day—Betty had insisted that Isaac buy the animal. “Milk,” she’d said. “Nice fresh goat’s milk. Won’t that be fine? And someday, when our little one is older, he or she will guzzle it down.”

  “Ain’t a thing wrong with cow’s milk,” he’d countered. But he knew when he was licked, and not three days later, the goat took up residence in their barn.

  And in their garden.

  And, if they weren’t watching, in their chicken coop. Wreaking havoc wherever it wandered.

  But Betty loved Myrtle. Coddled her like a personal pet. Ironically, neither one of them tasted so much as one drop of goat’s milk from the critter. Nor had baby James.

  Something was wrong with the varmint, no doubt about it.

  Isaac left the room, wondering how James was faring. Greta was in his room with him, probably putting him down for a nap. Greta was good with James, just like Betty had known she would be. After Betty had gotten sick, she’d arranged for her best friend to come by and watch the child.

  As time had gone on and Betty’s cancer had progressed, Greta’s time with them had increased exponentially. Lately, it seemed that the woman practically lived with them.

  Well, it was a good thing. Isaac was in no position to watch an eight-month old child. Not in addition to the farm work. He trod into the kitchen. His boots—which he hadn’t bothered to remove when he’d come in from the fields earlier—clunked their way across the hardwood floor.

  He went to the sink to get a drink of water. Abigail was still there, making some kind of herbal tea. Old Mae’s granddaughter seemed more than capable of standing in for the elderly herb woman. He was thankful for Abigail. She had a way with Betty, caring for her most days, at least for a spell.

  Abigail had recently moved to Hollybrook from Pennsylvania to live with her grandmother. She was of the age to have her own husband and children, but she was still single—something he’d never asked about but had pondered from time to time.

  “She doesn’t seem to be in pain today,” Abigail said. She poured steaming water into a cup. “I’ll see if I can get some of this down her. And maybe a bit of bread or fruit.”

  Isaac sighed. “She never ate any breakfast. She doesn’t eat much of anything these days.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Abigail stirred a bit of honey into the tea. Her face reflected her concentration. She paused in her stirring and gazed up at him.

  The look of pity on her face nearly made Isaac crack. It was all he could do to hold it together these days, and if someone showed him any kindness at all, he knew he would lose it. He looked away from Abigail, focusing on the cold water that was now spilling over his glass. With a jerky movement, he turned off the spigot.

  “Can I do anything else for you today?” Abigail asked.

  “Nee,” he choked out, praying she would just leave him.

  And she did. She carried the cup of tea out of the room, and he was left hunching over the sink, huge tears running down his face.

  Myrtle’s hoarse bleating greeted Isaac the minute he stepped into the barn.

  “Where are you?” he called out. “Show yourself. I know you’re up to no good.”

  The bleating continued, and he followed the sound behind a pile of garden tools. Myrtle looked up at him, her wispy white beard jiggling as she munched on a tattered glove.

  “Myrtle, you rascal! Give me that!” Isaac lunged forward and tried to grab Betty’s garden glove. Myrtle deftly stepped aside and when Isaac nearly stumbled over a rake, he could swear the animal laughed.

  “Give me that glove!”

  But Myrtle trotted off, her hooves clacking over the hard-packed floor like a high-heeled Englisch woman. Isaac started after her and then sto
pped. He shook his head and laughed—not a hearty pre-cancer-attacking-his-wife laugh, but a laugh all the same.

  Hmm. If that goat could amuse him under such circumstances, maybe it was good for something after all.

  Chapter Two

  Abigail stood at the front room window peering across the yard. From her vantage point, she could see the barn doors. They were open, and she knew Isaac was inside. She fingered the edge of the curtain and held back her tears. How the man suffered. She could feel him trying to be strong. She could feel his stoic effort. And it penetrated her like a lance.

  But who could blame him for crying? His wife wasn’t long for the world. Abigail felt it to her very core. She guessed one more day. Maybe two. If they were lucky, perhaps three.

  Lucky? Abigail shook her head and let go of the curtain, and it fluttered back in place. No. Another three days could hardly be counted as luck. Betty was ready to go. She was ready to leave this world for the great afterlife, and Abigail was intent on making her last hours as comfortable as possible.

  She turned from the window. She’d stay a couple more hours before heading back to her grandmother’s. Old Mae had been so busy lately bringing children into the world that she’d given Betty’s care almost entirely over to her. Abigail appreciated her confidence. Indeed, she loved it. She prayed she was worthy of it.

  Abigail had learned everything she knew about herbs and doctoring from Old Mae. Even when Abigail was a little squirt, she’d been interested, following Old Mae through her garden during the weeks she was there to visit every summer. Old Mae told her that she had the gift of healing, that it’d been passed down to her, skipping a generation in between.

  Abigail had felt special then, privileged. Back in Pennsylvania, she’d learned everything she could about healing, latching onto anyone she could find who knew anything. Even so, no one taught her like her beloved grandmother.

  Abigail was glad she’d moved to Hollybrook. She didn’t miss her family too much. Well, the children… But she was glad to be making a new beginning. Very glad. There were things and people back in Pennsylvania she was happy to forget.

  A creak sounded on the stairway, and Abigail turned to see Greta descend.

  “Oh, Abigail, you’re still here.”

  “Jah, for a while more. I’m about to go back upstairs and sit with Betty.”

  Greta’s eyes filled with tears. “How is she today?”

  “Much the same.”

  “No improvement?” Greta stepped into the front room, and the hope on her face made Abigail’s stomach hurt.

  “Greta, there isn’t going to be any improvement.”

  Greta wiped her eyes. “I know. I know. But I can’t stop hoping. Even when I see her, I can’t stop hoping and praying.”

  “Prayers are gut.”

  Greta didn’t move. She stared at Abigail. “But they don’t help, do they?”

  Abigail’s eyes widened. She was hardly qualified to become involved in such a discussion. “I don’t know.”

  That was honest enough. Yet Abigail did believe in prayer. There were many times, especially during the previous year, when her prayers were the only thing that had kept her going. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the image of Joshua Bechler flashed before her mind. Quickly, she opened her eyes again, shoving his face away from her consciousness.

  “I don’t know either,” Greta whispered. “Don’t tell my dat I said that.”

  “Your dat?” Abigail didn’t even know Greta’s father.

  “Jah. He wouldn’t like it.”

  Upon hearing the nervousness in Greta’s voice, Abigail frowned. Just who was Greta’s father? The bishop or something?

  “I won’t say anything.” Abigail moved to the stairs. “I’m going up now. Is the baby asleep?”

  “Jah. I thought I’d start on the noon meal.”

  Abigail smiled at her. “You’re a gut friend, Greta. Helping out like this. I know Betty appreciates it and loves you for it.”

  Once again, Greta’s eyes brimmed with tears. With a curt nod, she turned away and went into the kitchen.

  Abigail climbed the stairs, noting that almost every step gave out a squeak. The house was old. If she remembered correctly, Old Mae had told her that Betty’s grandfather had built it. But Betty didn’t have much family left. Some had moved away, some had died. So, Betty had inherited the house.

  Abigail didn’t know Isaac’s story. She’d never asked. But she wondered where he was raised. Maybe around here, maybe not. But she found herself curious about it.

  Chapter Three

  “Abigail?” Betty muttered.

  Abigail bent low. “Jah? What is it?”

  “I’m hot.”

  Abigail felt her brow with the back of her hand. “You do feel a bit warm. Let me get a cool cloth for you.”

  Betty grabbed her hand, her grip surprisingly strong. Her fingers circled Abigail’s thin wrist like a claw.

  “Nee. Stay.”

  Abigail smoothed Betty’s hair from her forehead. “You’ll feel better if I get that cloth.”

  “Nee.” Betty’s voice was weaker this time.

  “All right. I’ll stay with you.” Abigail perched on the side of the bed. “Would you like a bit of broth?”

  Betty shook her head.

  “Greta’s in the kitchen. She’s done so much around here. She’s a lovely person.”

  Betty’s eyes fluttered closed. She nodded.

  “James is down for a nap. Would you like me to bring him to you when he wakes?”

  Betty’s lips turned up in a smile, but she kept her eyes closed.

  “All right. While you rest a minute, let me get that cloth. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Abigail patted Betty’s arm and left for the bathroom. She ran cool water over a fresh cloth and hurried back to Betty’s room. She folded the cloth and pressed it gently on Betty’s forehead. Betty stirred and opened her eyes.

  “Feels gut,” she muttered.

  Abigail smiled. “I knew it would. How about a few more sips of tea?”

  “Nee.”

  “Maybe later,” Abigail said.

  “Greta will be my boy’s mamm.”

  Abigail frowned. “What?”

  “My boy … his mamm.”

  Abigail leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “Greta will marry Isaac.”

  A feeling of tension clutched Abigail’s chest. She drew in a long breath and frowned. “She will?”

  “Isaac promised…” Betty’s voice faded, and Abigail could tell she had fallen back asleep.

  Isaac was to marry Greta? He’d promised? Abigail rose to her feet. Why did she suddenly feel stricken? It was none of her business. In fact, it had nothing to do with her at all. She bent down and turned the cloth on Betty’s forehead over.

  “James?” Betty questioned, stirring again.

  “I’ll see if he’s awake,” Abigail answered. She left the room, leaving the door ajar. She tiptoed across the hall to the bedroom where she knew Isaac now slept with his son. Since his wife had turned for the worse, Isaac and the baby had moved to a different room.

  “I don’t want to disturb her,” Isaac had told her in explanation. “Every time James fusses, Betty thrashes and moans.”

  Abigail poked her head inside the room. Greta had pulled the curtains even though it was daylight, so the room was shadowed. She could see the lump of James’s sweet form through the slats of the crib. His little behind was up in the air, reminding her of a baby bear.

  She smiled and slipped into the room. She walked to the crib and stood over it. She could hear the gentle rhythmic breathing of the baby.

  “Ach, little one,” she whispered. “Your dear mama loves you so.” She reached out and traced her finger down James’s back. She wished he would wake up so she could take him in to Betty, but since Greta had only recently put him down, it would probably be hours yet.

  “Sleep well,” she murmured. She turned to leave and gave a
start. Isaac was in the doorframe, looking at her.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I-I was just checking on him.”

  She crossed the floor, and he stepped back, allowing her to leave.

  “I thought you were outside,” she said, wondering why she felt guilty. She’d done nothing wrong.

  “I was.” Isaac ran his hand through his thick hair. A light brown tuft in front stuck up at a funny angle.

  Abigail only just kept herself from brushing it back down with her fingers. Her eyes widened in alarm. What was the matter with her today?

  Isaac looked at the door of his wife’s room. “I find myself unable to stay away,” he said, his voice thick.

  “She’s feverish but doesn’t seem to be in pain.”

  “I went to an Englisch doctor, you know.” Isaac blew out his breath.

  She reached out and touched his sleeve. “Englisch doctors can be helpful.”

  “I never told your grandmother.”

  “She knows.”

  His brows rose. “Does she?” He shook his head. “I guess it don’t matter. Betty’s still in there, dying.” He whispered the last word, and his voice caught.

  Abigail’s eyes filled with tears. “Jah. She is.”

  “I gave her some of the drugs.”

  Abigail studied him. Why was he confessing to her? Was he seeking absolution for something he didn’t feel was right? But a lot of Amish went to Englisch doctors. Abigail knew that the kind of medicine she and her grandmother offered was sometimes not enough. Especially when a person’s life was at stake.

  “It’s all right,” Abigail told him.

  He gave her a frantic look. “But Betty wouldn’t have wanted it. She doesn’t even know I gave her the drugs. I didn’t tell her. I got them down her with a bit of bread.”

  “But she’s not suffering. And that is worth something, isn’t it?”